The pandemic delivered a
houseguest. I know, not the ideal time to add to our brood, but I don’t think I
have much of a choice. The girl, woman actually—I’m still getting used to how
much she has aged—who has been staying with us these past two months seems keen
on extending her stay. She hasn’t confessed it out loud to me yet, but I can
tell. She’s getting too comfortable, playing UNO with my kids, falling asleep on
the La-Z-Boy couch, adding items to the grocery list. The other night at two a.m. I caught
her watching season one of Homeland.
I am slowly acclimating
to having another person around, her oddness and unnerving ability to just show
up in the middle of a family meal or half-way through an episode of America’s
Funniest Home Videos. Granted, she is not the most courteous interloper. She
can be irritable, morose, withdrawn, and downright rude. I am endeavoring to
tolerate her, to accept all of her idiosyncrasies. But sometimes she scares me,
the way she looks at me in the shadows when the rest of the house is asleep. We
stare at each other on either side of the coffee table like some kind of dark, perverse
blinking contest. I’m convinced she derives some kind of sick pleasure out of
watching me cry or hovering over me in the deep of night, causing me to shudder
awake, terrified of something I can’t quite articulate.
Still, there are
some afternoons of peace, those portrait-perfect, 70-degree, white-washed Saturdays
that make me nostalgic for my brief stint in California, when I take the kids for
a walk in the woods or a bike ride and she’s nowhere to be found.
She has visited me
before, in high school and during my first semester of college, and each time after my children were born.
She attended both my weddings and some family funerals and camped out for a while
in the summer of 2002. That year, I thought she was never going to leave.
There are times
she musters the consideration to call ahead, offering only a loose estimate of
arrival like some loony old great-uncle who refuses to conform to society’s method
of timekeeping. Other times, she seems to revel in just showing up on my
doorstep. The bell rings and I assume it’s the Amazon delivery guy with my
clarifying shampoo. She’ll barge past me without a word, without a hello, her
car strapped down with baggage, parked in the driveway like some overburdened turtle.
One instance, when I
was twenty-eight she surprised me so completely she made me shriek in fright. She
wore the sinister delight of a child jumping out of a linen closet. That time I
don’t even remember opening the door for her.
She always finds
me, no matter how many times I move or cross state lines. She comes regardless,
in spite of, and in addition to—seeking me out with such precision, it is as
though I am unintentionally alerting her, this highly receptive mosquito, with
my every breath.
On this latest
visit, she arrived with a new look, a questionable wardrobe which lacks a
certain finesse. Her pants are all elastic, her sweaters baggy, and sometimes I’m
convinced she doesn’t even bother with a bra. Her hair could use a trim and her
dark roots are starting to show, but I don’t want to offend her. Glass houses
and all.
Each time she
appears, a familiar stone of dread settles in my gut, the way she scrutinizes
me, almost pleased with herself for disrupting my life. But after she is finally
gone, truly gone and not just hiding in the pantry, things begin to find rhythm
again. It may be rocky for a while, but then one day I find myself pausing while
sautéing zucchini or reading a Nancy Drew to my children and realize we are all
in a pretty good place.
I don’t remember the
goodbyes as much as I recall each of her hellos. I can usually pinpoint when she's preparing to disappear. There are fewer staring contests, confrontations
and clashes. Her eyes exude more tenderness and compassion as though she
herself is mourning the inevitable departure.
Last week, after losing my job at a company I’ve been with for seventeen
years, I asked her to sit down with me to better assess how long she was
planning on staying. I needed to be proactive and prudent about budgeting and food
costs. The additional mouth to feed was getting to be a bit of a drag.
Immediately, I felt
awkward. How was it that I didn’t even know this woman’s name? After all this
time, all these encounters, living under my own roof?
“Look,” I said,
folding my hands on my lap. “I’m not sure what to call you, but I’ve known you
almost forty years now and this is the longest you’ve ever stayed. Shouldn’t
you be leaving soon?”
She smiled, that
prescient grin that makes me both uneasy and reassured. How does she always
manage to make me feel oblivious, as if I, alone, aren’t comprehending a glaringly
obvious riddle?
“Emily,” she said,
mirroring me in folding her hands. “I’m pretty sure I introduced myself years
ago when you were a young girl. Call me Change. But why would I leave now
when we’re just beginning to get to know each other?”
